In a blow to narcissism the nation over, the National Park Service has confirmed that a miscreant has taken a blade to the reflective dignity of the Washington Reflecting Pool. Yes, the shimmering, self-absorbed centrepiece of the National Mall now leaks into the American subconscious like a punctured metaphor for the republic's memory. The NPS, in a fit of pique or possibly desperation, has called for forensic assistance from Scotland Yard. Because if anyone knows about investigating a hole in something that once seemed unbreakable, it's the British.
Details remain as murky as the Pool's now-drained ambition. A 'person of interest' was seen rifling through the liner with a knife. Not a machete, not a sword, but a knife. A knife? In a town where politicians stab each other in the back with legislation and tweets, this is small-fry slash-and-dash. But the symbolism! Oh, the symbolism. The Reflecting Pool: where we went to see ourselves as we were, as we are, and as we could never be. Now it's a damp crater, a puddle of broken aspirations.
One can almost hear the collective sigh from every tour guide in the District: 'And on your right, the drained wound of a nation's self-regard, once a mirror, now a mire.'
Forensics, say the NPS. But what are forensics in the age of alternative facts? Perhaps they'll find DNA from a rogue congressman, or trace elements of irony from a journalist. The British, naturally, will arrive with their calm and their tweed and their quiet superiority. 'We've seen this before, old chap. Our own Hall of Mirrors at Versailles had a similar incident. A mime with a grudge. Water under the bridge.'
But let us not jest too much. This is a serious breach of national infrastructure. The liner, a 6.5 million gallon vessel of vanity, was our last collective reflection. Now, like the nation itself, it leaks from the middle outward, slowly deflating into the Washington soil.
What next? Will the Lincoln Memorial's toga get a wedgie? Will the Capitol dome develop a leak? We are but one slash away from a complete breakdown of architectural metaphor. The NPS, bless their khaki hearts, are doing all they can. But calling the Yard? That's a plea. A desperate, humbled plea to the mother country: 'Help us see ourselves clearly again. Or at least help us find the bastard who slashed our self-image.'
Perhaps the British will find the culprit. Perhaps it's a metaphor for something. Perhaps it's just a bloke with a knife and a grudge against refraction. But in the meantime, the Reflecting Pool is dry, Washington is bereft of its favourite mirror, and the tourists are taking selfies in a puddle.
A sad day. A day for gin, and righteous indignation. We shall sit vigil by the empty basin, nurse our beverages, and wait for the Yard. They'll come. They always do. And perhaps, just perhaps, they'll find the knife. And the hand that held it. And the reason why, in this land of the free, we can no longer bear to look at ourselves.
As always, this is Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, reporting from the edge of a dead calm. Goodnight, and good luck reflecting.
